


The indebted witcher

by embeer2004



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Caring, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 10:10:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004
Summary: Dandelion walks into Geralt’s room to check up on his friend and while doing so wonders at the witcher’s loyalty to Vernon Roche.





	The indebted witcher

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in Witcher 3 and references some events in Witcher 1 and 2.

Dandelion made sure to walk as quietly as he could as he approached the bed Geralt lay in, fast asleep.  
  
His friend lay on his belly, his head turned towards the door, and even asleep a frown was on his face. Dandelion really didn't want to wake his dear old friend, he just needed to make sure that Geralt was all right.  
  
He hadn’t seen Geralt come in, but apparently Zoltan had and from what the dwarf had told him Geralt had looked to be in pain and like he needed to sleep for at least a week. The way the witcher had been acting, keeping to the shadows, had discouraged Zoltan from taking any action himself, but the dwarf had been sure to tell Dandelion the moment he’d stepped inside the tavern.  
  
Dandelion found himself agreeing with Zoltan the moment he’d opened the door to Geralt’s room.  
  
That Geralt allowed himself to sleep here after whatever had happened to cause him to be in such pain caused a warm fondness to settle in his heart. Geralt felt safe here, and Dandelion was pretty sure it had less to do with just being inside than it was because it was _Dandelion’s _tavern and he and Zoltan excelled at keeping the rabble outside.  
  
The rabble… the ordinary folk.  
  
Scoffing, Dandelion rolled his eyes. People, humans especially, tended to see exactly what he wanted them to see: a colourful bard, a lecher and womaniser. And Geralt saw that, but he saw _more_ and his friend never forgot that he was a learned professor, nor did he forget about Dandelion’s extracurricular activities, or what they meant.  
  
Dijkstra only hired the best, after all.  
  
But that whole thing with Rience… Closing his eyes, Dandelion forced himself to breathe in deeply. If it hadn't been for Yennefer he'd be dead now. It had been years ago and he should be over it, yet still a shiver ran through his body as he lifted his hand to rub at his mouth.  
  
Geralt was still asleep, luckily, the sudden movement not disturbing him in the slightest. As a matter of fact, it looked like his friend had grown calmer, his brow smoothed out. The witcher breathed in deeply and his nose wiggled a bit.  
  
Dandelion grinned. He just _knew_ that Geralt had detected his scent and sensed his presence. As long as he stayed calm he wouldn’t rouse the sleeping witcher. This pleased him immensely; over all the long years they'd known each other, even during the time that Geralt had amnesia, his friend had somehow decided that he was safe.  
  
Geralt called him his ‘best friend’ and the kind-hearted witcher was actually one of the few people who _truly _saw him. And Dandelion saw who _he _was in return: a witcher, true, but not without emotion. How could anyone say that, seriously? Geralt was always worrying and trying to help wherever he could, getting dragged into business he was ill suited for and feeling an immense guilt when he failed in a task he’d been forced to take on.  
  
He was a witcher, after all, not a politician.  
  
Smiling wryly, Dandelion took the last step and stared down at the pale face. Too pale. And those dark rings hadn't been under his eyes six months ago, nor even a week ago when Geralt had shown up at the Rosemary and Thyme after freeing him from Temple Isle’s prison.  
  
Sitting down on the mattress, right next to Geralt's hip, Dandelion’s gaze was drawn to his friend’s back; his pale skin clearly visible seeing as the covers had shifted downwards, exposing just the curve of a naked buttock.  
  
Odd, usually Geralt kept on some braies when he turned in for the night.  
  
There was a nasty feeling niggling inside his guts and, clenching his jaw, Dandelion reached out to the cover and pulled it a bit lower, seeing the vivid bruises on his friend’s hip and the back of his thigh. _Ouch_, that had got to hurt, especially as the bruise was still dark purple-black, an hour after returning here.  
  
How Geralt could consider Roche a friend of any sort was a mystery to Dandelion. He’d never liked the commander of the Blue Stripes, ever since he’d heard stories of Roche hunting down the Scoia’tael. He’d despised the man for his mentality, and after meeting him in the flesh he’d only felt resentment and disgust, in addition to a healthy dose of wariness, though he’d been clever enough to hide it.  
  
Only the best for Dijkstra…  
  
Why did Geralt feel so indebted to the man responsible for the horrid scars Dandelion now had a clear view of?  
  
Geralt owed that man nothing.  
  
Well sure, Roche had helped Geralt out while he had been searching for Triss and Letho, but it had been for the commander’s own goals. Roche had used Geralt like a pawn on a chessboard, uncaring if he lost the piece and not willing to admit that the king had been captured and the game had been over already.  
  
Roche had lost his king and had been acting like he could bring Foltest back to life simply by catching his killer.  
  
Foltest… the king who’d sired a daughter through his own sister. A daughter who’d been born dead and had become a monstrosity, and not the striga that Geralt had found a way to uncurse. No, Adda and her ties to Salamandra and the chaos she had created had been shoved under the rug and Foltest had been none the wiser of any of her ill-doings.  
  
And then she’d ended up becoming Radovid’s queen. The same Radovid who was now burning magic-users and non-humans.  
  
He still hadn’t found out what had happened to Adda, nor had his contacts. Was she even still alive? He doubted it, after all, in Radovid’s books she was a non-human as well, a monster, and she had served her purpose.  
  
No matter. What did matter was that Roche was still fighting for a free Temeria, and all in memory of a dead king.  
  
Geralt owed the man _nothing_. Oh sure, the commander had saved Geralt from Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen… at least that one counted, but first putting the proverbial (nearly real) noose around his friend’s neck and then beating him into submission before giving Geralt one tiny means to break out of prison all by himself just didn’t count as aid!  
  
Torturing someone until they agreed to do your bidding was a despicable approach.  
  
All fair in love and war, right?  
  
Dandelion’s lip trembled as he sneered and he breathed in, forming his mouth into an O to help his jaw relax.  
  
Roche had tortured and coerced Geralt into working for him, and yet his friend had ridden out to the Temerian hideout and helped the erstwhile commander of the Blue Stripes and that woman of his, Ves.  
  
"They haven't been careful with you at all, have they, my dear friend?" Dandelion whispered, reaching out to lay his hand lightly on the man's upper back, tracing one of the bigger scars that even now looked red and infected. “They haven’t watched your back as they should have, that’s why you’re in this state…”  
  
There was a bandage on Geralt's wrist, and Dandelion could still make out some dark veins on his friend's skin; he’d been fine before he’d left to help Roche and this is how he returned. Had whatever Geralt had helped the Blue Stripes out with been worth it?  
  
“’li’onn?” Geralt slurred quietly and his eyelids fluttered.  
  
“Shhh, Geralt,” Dandelion whispered, resting his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “just checking to see how you’re doing. Zoltan mentioned you looked a mess.”  
  
“Hnnn,” Geralt hummed, “will… live. T’red…” The way that Geralt’s breathing turned slow and soft barely a few seconds after just indicated the man’s exhaustion – and his trust; Geralt hadn’t even shifted one tiny bit.  
  
Sighing, Dandelion carefully rose from the bed, moving the cover back the way he’d found it, if just slightly higher.  
  
Quietly making his way back to the door, Dandelion started making plans. He’d get the full story out of Geralt once he was up and about again, but in the meanwhile he would speak with Zoltan and see if they had the ingredients in house to make Geralt’s favourite dishes; he’d ask the dwarf to fetch them else wise. Geralt was bound to be hungry when he woke up, after all, and after returning in such a sorry state he certainly deserved a bit of pampering by his friends.  
  
And depending on Geralt’s story, Dandelion would decide on what to do with Vernon Roche. He still had his contacts, after all…  
  
**The end**

**Author's Note:**

> This is just one take on Vernon Roche and this is how Dandelion sees him, in this fic at least. ;)


End file.
